


Par Un Soir Tardif d'Été

by whatthedruidscallme



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: After Series Finale, Angst, But we all knew about it, Grief, Hope, I mean technically there was character death, Love, Memories, Merlin Through the Seasons, One Shot, Weather I Mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthedruidscallme/pseuds/whatthedruidscallme
Summary: On a late summer evening, as each season fades into another, Merlin visits an empty grave.





	Par Un Soir Tardif d'Été

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks SO much to smorgasbordofobsessions on Tumblr for the prompt!!!

Spring, in the end, was strange.

_New beginnings_ , they said, usually with a sympathetic smile and a clasp of clammy hands. After all that’s what spring meant. Life began to bloom again. Shy leaves turned faces up to gentle morning showers, trees began to breathe again. Pale lilac buds burst open, clutching gratefully at the sunlight. Tiny, inescapable miracles, pulsing with new life, sparkling in the air around him.

Flowery perfume was heavy in the air and Merlin almost always gagged when he stepped outside, earning him disapproving looks. People were whistling and the marketplace was as busy as it had always been, stalls clamouring for business and arguing about prices. Nothing had changed, he realized distantly. The fruit tasted the same, Gaius still looked at him crossly when he snapped at someone he shouldn’t have, the castle stood as proudly as it had when the king of only a few years had died.

The grave where he didn’t lay was crowded with flowers now, piled high with new blooms and vines that had already begun to snake over the epitaph that stiffly proclaimed him as King of Camelot, Beloved Husband to Guinevere, Queen. It said nothing about the lopsided grin he had when he drank too much wine, the grace of a sword in his hand, his inability to keep track of a comb. No words about his hatred of speeches, the reverence that shone in his eyes when he looked at his queen, the clumsy grins he’d always had in early grey mornings.

 _Spring_ , Merlin thought, the hard ache in his chest sharpening for a moment. _A time for miracles. I think I’ll give you one more chance._ Around him, the soft air breathed and the lilac bush curled in on itself for a beat of his heart.

When the heat arrived it brought with it clear skies and burning sunlight, vivid gardens and flowers coloured like a fever. Cicadas keened in the still air and grass wilted and cracked.

Summer had been Arthur’s favourite season. Gods knew why, Merlin hated it. The sweltering heat that stank like sweat and old wine and the butcher’s shop, the tepid water, the hunting…but Arthur had loved it. He had asked why once in a fit of daring. If he closed his eyes he could still see the softening in Arthur’s face and the way his teeth worried at his bottom lip.

 _“Mother,”_ he had said, the alien word forming oddly around his lips. _“My father told me once that just before she died, she’d said I had sunlight for a tuft of hair and the summer sky in my eyes.”_ He had shrugged almost sadly, like someone who had given up a secret that had lost its meaning as soon as he had spoken. _“One of the last things she said, that I belonged with summer. I think she was right.”_

Merlin stood in front of the empty grave. The flowers had wilted, the vines shrivelled. The sun was scorching his dry skin and he knew without touching it that the stone would burn as hot as a blacksmith’s fire. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“She was right, you know,” Merlin murmured. He took a deep breath, and this time his words were old and worn and reminded him of less painful times, but he said them the same as he did almost every other day.

“There are plenty of other kings to work for, you know. You’re not the only pompous, supercilious, condescending royal imbecile I could work for. The world is full of them. But…I’m going to give you one more chance.”

He waited there for a moment, but the wind took his words with a sigh, and it was like he’d never spoken them.

Merlin’s lip trembled and in a flash of anger, he stretched his hand out to the stone and shouted something too fast to catch. The stone blew violently apart, shattering like glass, and Merlin fell to his knees with a harsh sob.

“I’m going to give you one more chance,” he whispered again, but the silence swallowed his words, and he waited with his hands pressed into the dirt and his body curved into the ground, almost like a bow.

They rebuilt the stone by the time the weather had turned colder. There were a few sidelong glances and some muttering about what on earth could have happened to it, but no one questioned Merlin. Which was all very well, he might have just told them the truth.

Pale mist slid along the ground in early mornings, weaving in between dark trees that scowled as the days grew shorter. Dry brown leaves crackled on forest floor and the sunlight was thin and fragile even at high noon.

But Merlin filled his lungs with crisp air and listened to the wind mourn an old summer. His small fire had been reduced to glowing embers and the smoke sputtered as it rose above the trees.

The world was decaying around him. People wrapped shawls more securely about themselves, the forest shuddered when evening light failed and gave way to night, but still Merlin stayed, until goose bumps rippled up his spine and the moon waxed fat and yellow in the sky.

When a figure in a dark cloak slithered along the leaves behind him, he didn’t turn around. When the figure sat down beside him and drew down her hood, his gaze didn’t flicker from the dying fire.

When she began to speak in whispers, Merlin answered her. She spoke of an easy laugh, the frown that used to crease her husband’s forehead when he wore the crown. The excitement that coursed through his veins when his sword clashed with another’s in a tournament, the hectic colour in his cheeks after a day spent hunting. Merlin answered with memories and scraps of confident smiles, ridiculously affectionate teasing and the unwillingness to get out of bed, the spark in his eyes and how he always said not to worry.

They remembered snatches of golden days, the punch line of a half-forgotten joke, a particularly unfortunate picnic with horribly sour fruit. The way he chewed his quill when he was stuck writing on a speech, always managing to breath in a feather and cough it out. The near violent protection when it came to either of them, the foolish courage, they pieced together all the memories they had, knowing all the while it would never be finished.

The sky was lightening to grey shot with pink and silver when Gwen leaned her head against Merlin and sighed. “I miss him,” she said.

A gentle, wistful smile crossed Merlin’s mouth. “Me too,” he whispered. “I think I’ll give him one more chance.”

“Yes,” Gwen said dreamily, closing her eyes. “One more chance.”

Soon autumn had disappeared, replaced by ice glittering on the roof and snow lacing the boughs of trees. The wind howled and shrieked at the doors, rattling at the entrance of Gaius’s quarters, but Merlin was not there.

A fire sang and crackled in the hearth in Arthur’s old chambers. The shadows danced along the wall, competing with the snow screaming and lashing at the window. It shone in Merlin’s hair and flickered along his pale skin, and though the cold from the stone floor was seeping bitterly into his bones, Merlin was only thinking of warmth. He was wrapped in old furs that smelled like comfort and familiarity and dressed in a too-big red shift that had been patched over so many times it hardly looked like itself any more. A glass of wine that had been someone else’s favourite sat by him. It was still full.

He was humming softly, swaying with the fingers of the fire as it licked at the walls of the hearth. If he tilted his head just right and stayed as still as he could, sometimes he thought he heard a peal of laughter that mingled with the sound of the wind before it was gone.

“Arthur,” he murmured. His voice bruised the silence. “It’s alright. She’s happier now, at least a little. She misses you almost as much as I do. She does a brilliant job running your kingdom, better than you did. The people probably just like her better.” He snickered softly. “You know, Gaius thinks I’m crazy for sitting here like this. Either that or still overwhelmed with grief, which I’m not anymore. But he still looks at me the way he did a few days after you…after you died. I don’t like it but I can’t convince him I’m not waiting for you. I think I still might be.”

He broke off suddenly and sighed. “Still. I’m going to give you one more chance. Come back to me. Just one more chance, Arthur. Just one.”

Merlin was asleep before the fire had gone out, curling up under the furs at the foot of the bed. His breathing came calm and slow, and if for a moment the air rippled and a pale figure with hair like sunlight and eyes like the summer sky stood there for a moment and smiled, Merlin didn’t see him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think :) I'd love to hear it.


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